


back to the hedgerows

by kennith



Series: Death and the Maiden [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: (Broken) Murder Family, Abigail Hobbs Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Lesbian Abigail Hobbs, M/M, Might be Mildly Blasphemous, Minor Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Movie: The Silence of the Lambs (1991), POV Abigail Hobbs, Past Character Death, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Will Graham Dies, if bryan can make hannibal a gay tragedy then i can make tsotl a gay drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kennith/pseuds/kennith
Summary: Clarice pauses, hesitant. “Hannibal Lecter has offered his assistance, but only if you come to see him in person.”Years after confronting Hannibal in Florence, Abigail gets a phone call. She's dragged back to Baltimore to speak to him and potentially help catch a serial killer. (Thankfully she has personal experience.)
Relationships: Abigail Hobbs & Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs/Clarice Starling, Abigail Hobbs/Original Female Character(s), Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Freddie Lounds/Wendy, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Series: Death and the Maiden [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063910
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	1. Pandora

**Author's Note:**

> so you know how in the show hannibal and will ended up kissing and/or fucking half of the female characters? this is my version of that except with abigail because i think she deserves it.
> 
> while bryan has stated that he wanted elliot page to play the role of clarice, he also mentioned exploring different racial backgrounds, so i left her appearance mostly ambigious. if you absolutely NEED a reference, i'm personally using [rebecca breeds ](https://theplaylist.net/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/Rebecca-Breeds-Originals.jpg) (who's playing her in _clarice_ ), mostly because the original novel implies that she's ginger and also jodie foster's clarice looks too similar to will/abigail and that weirds me out.
> 
> before anyone gets their panties in a twist, darcy is only PARTLY an oc. she's a (very brief) character in red dragon but she was killed off screen so i'm going the bryan fuller route and taking pretty much just her name and making her a whole new character. if he can do it, so can i. my ideal casting for her would probably be [ sofia bryant](https://dazedimg-dazedgroup.netdna-ssl.com/906/102-170-906-604/azure/dazed-prod/1280/9/1289971.jpg).
> 
> an important note: while i know there's people who argue over whether buffalo bill's motives (and also general existence) are/is transphobic, i (a trans person) decided to switch them around but not overally so. please **do not** debate about this in the comments. this is my fictional story, not an opinion piece.
> 
> as always, thank you for reading. <3 next chapter Coming Soon Probably i don't know i'm on a roll lately so that might change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Prepare slaughter for his sons  
> because of the guilt of their fathers,  
> lest they rise and possess the earth,  
> and fill the face of the world with cities.   
> _— Isaiah 14:21_

Abigail is cooking when she gets the call. (Later, she would realize how ironic that is.)

She doesn’t bother to look at the caller ID, since only two people bother to call her, and one of them is her ex-girlfriend. “Hello?” she greets, balancing the phone between her shoulder and her good ear as she minces a carrot.

“Ms. Abigail Hobbs?”

She pauses, the knife just above the cutting board. She doesn’t recognize the voice. “Who is this?”

“My name is Clarice Starling,” she says. A young woman. Probably around her age, or a bit older. “I’m an FBI trainee under Jack Crawford. I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”

Abigail puts the knife down, takes a deep breath in through her nose, and takes out the whiskey. God knows she’s going to need it after this. “Jack and I go back a long way,” she responds, clipped and bitter. She knows it’s rude, but she can’t be bothered to care right now. “Can I help you?” she asks, throwing her braid over her shoulder and taking a swig of the whiskey, enjoying the burn as it goes down hard.

“I’m working on the Buffalo Bill case,” Clarice explains, not backing down from Abigail’s brutish demeanor. She wouldn’t expect anything different from one of Jack’s protégés. Clarice pauses, hesitant. “Hannibal Lecter has offered his assistance, but only if you come to see him in person.”

Of course. Of fucking _course_ Jack goes to Hannibal, because his one trick pony is gone and Hannibal is the only one left that has a fraction of what went on inside Will’s mind. Of _course_ Hannibal fucking Lecter finds a way back into her life.

Abigail would see his name in the papers months after Florence. Would rip those sections out with her bare hands and continue to read. Would turn off the TV when they show his face. Would tune out when he was brought up in conversation. Would walk to the next aisle when she would see Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton’s books in stores. But he always finds his way back.

Abigail almost snaps and says _no_ to this poor girl who probably just wants to do her job, but stops. They wouldn’t contact her if they thought he didn’t know anything. Wouldn’t follow through with his wishes, so there has to be _some_ merit to his claims to help. She taps her fingertips against the marble counter.

_“Do you want to let more people die?”_ Someone asks. She can’t tell who.

She sighs.

“I can be in Baltimore in a few days,” she says. “He’s still at the BSHCI?”

“Yes,” Clarice answers. She sounds like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. “An appointment with him can be scheduled for around that time. Thank y—”

Abigail hangs up abruptly. She doesn’t want to hear anymore than she has to. Clarice can just call her back with the appointment time if need be. She drops the phone on the countertop. Presses her hands against the cool marble. Leans her head down.

She holds back a scream. She can’t afford another noise complaint. God knows how much her neighbors hate her already.

* * *

**Darcy (DON’T ANSWER UNLESS NECESSARY)**

_can you come over and feed my cat for the next week or so?_

_i have to go to a family thing in baltimore_

_Of course I can_

_Is there something wrong??_

_thanks_

_i’ll lyk when i’m back_

_Abby???_

_ >> Read at _ **_10:37 PM_ **

* * *

Abigail considers herself, at this point in her life, to be pretty stable. Has an apartment. A cat, a tabby named May that she found as a stray near the supermarket and couldn’t resist, that she loves dearly. A (formerly) healthy sex life. Takes her antipsychotics on time. Goes to therapy. Maybe lacking in the relationship part, but that’s just how she is. She’s a private, solitary person. All in all, she's fine.

Well—she _was_ until that phone call. A layer of dread had sunk into her skin since then, prickling with unease as she ate dinner, did her chores, got ready for bed. She closes her eyes, body stiff as a board under the blanket. _Marissa’s naked body impaled onto her father’s antlers._

Opens them. Closes.

_Will’s lifeless eyes, insides spilling out from the cut in his abdomen._

Opens them again. Closes.

_Hannibal smiling as he catches her eye at the end of the stream. Will’s calming presence beside her is gone._

She groans, rubbing her face. There’s no point in trying. She gets up out of bed, picking up her phone to see no missed notifications, except for Darcy’s text message. (She winces, realizing she probably should’ve just gotten a cat sitter, but it’s too late now.) She sits it back down, looking out the window.

The full moon is really pretty tonight. Stars surround it like a blanket, bathing her in a soft glow. She reaches out a palm, itching to cup it. She sighs, holding her head in her hands.

Luckily she has enough vacation time for a week off and then some, and her boss was more than accommodating given the lack of announcement. She’s _definitely_ going to need those extra days.

She was silently praying to whatever God might exist that something would go wrong in the planning, such as not getting those days off, or no one being able to look after May, or her car unexpectedly stalling on the day she has to leave. Apparently Fate has some shitty plan in store for her, after all.

She falls back on the bed, facing the ceiling. Her tank top has slid up and she didn’t bother to put pants on, so her midriff and legs are _freezing_. Her bed has been extremely cold lately, in more ways than one.

( _"Abby, no, it’s just—” A sigh. “I just don’t know what’s up with you, drifting away from me like this. You won’t tell me anything and—and it’s unhealthy for both of us._

_“I love you. I love you so much that it fucking hurts to see you like this. But I think we’re better off as friends for now.”_ )

Abigail smashes her face into her pillow and lets out that scream.

( _“So until I get my shit together, basically?”_

_“I wouldn’t say it like that, but yes.”_ )

_Fuck my life_ , she thinks.

* * *

_Abigail’s therapist is a short, dumpy woman. Her hair is tied back into a bun that’s as tight as Abigail’s posture. She always feels tense at their sessions, despite how friendly the older woman is. She taps her pen against her clipboard, looking at Abigail with a professional smile. “So how are you today, Abigail?”_

_She leans back against the chair, a rock hard thing that reminds her of the desks in her old high school. “Same old,” she replies. “I had a nightmare last night.”_

_Her therapist—Norma—frowns. “You’ve been having a lot of those lately.” She clicks her pen, ready to take down notes. “What was this one about, if you remember?”_

_She remembers it just fine. “I was in the woods, the ones close to my dad’s old cabin,” she starts. Norma knows exactly what she means by her dad. “I had my rifle in my hand, and I was hunting. It was autumn—there were so many dead leaves crunching under my feet.” She can recall them clearly; crack, crack, crack. “There was nothing around, so I didn’t find anything at first.”_

_Norma gestures for Abigail to continue, pen flying wildly across the paper._

_“I looked down, and I saw my mom’s dead body.” She taps her nails against her crossed knees, not looking up at Norma. “I stared at her for a second, and then she turned into Will. But I kept walking.”_

_Norma pauses at the mention of Will, wanting to talk about it but stopping herself. “Did you find anything else?”_

_“I found my dad, on his knees in front of me.” Her voice thankfully does not shake. She’s learned to suppress it. Come off as detached. “I raised my gun, and he smiled at me. Then he turned into Hannibal.” She looks Norma straight in the eye. “I shot him in the head.”_

_A beat. “I think you see Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter as an extension of your parents,” Norma begins after a moment._ Yeah, no shit, _she thinks. “But not as nurturing. They were kind to you at one time but the tides shifted. You want to take your power back, especially towards your father.” Norma’s lips purse into a thin line. “Your father killed your mother. Hannibal Lecter killed Will Graham.”_

_“Yeah, I see the connection,” she mumbles._

_“You saw yourself as the prey at one time. Now you’ve grown into the predator.” Norma’s metaphors are easier to understand than Hannibal’s ever were, thankfully._

_“I think I might be too comfortable as a predator,” Abigail states. Norma raises an eyebrow, so she continues: “I felt Hannibal looking too deep into me, into my soul. Like he was proud of me. Like…” she gulps, “like he was looking at an extension of himself.”_

_“Do you think of yourself as a victim of Hannibal Lecter, or a part of him that split off into its own person?”_

_Crack, crack, crack, the leaves go under her feet._

_“I don’t know.”_

* * *

Abigail’s car doesn’t break down the next day, sadly. She’s honestly surprised; it’s an ugly thing that’s twenty years old and makes strange noises every other day. But beggars can’t be choosers, she supposes.

After apologizing for leaving her on read, she texts Darcy back, saying she’s fine and she’s leaving. It only takes a moment for her to answer, wishing her to stay safe and with a _love you_ at the end. Abigail isn’t sure what to say to that.

She slams the trunk of her car more forcibly than necessary. Her suitcase is packed to the brim, because if her luck is anything to go by then she’s probably going to be stuck in Baltimore for longer than a week. Reno has been serving her just fine for years, and she would prefer it to stay that way. Unfortunately not.

God, Baltimore is a _long_ drive away. It was too late to book a flight, plus she’s barely making it by as it is, so she decides to take the long way. It’s better than having someone snoring on her shoulder and a toddler crying in economy. Bad news is that she’s stuck with her thoughts for the next two days, at least.

She had told May goodbye a little while ago, and like most cats do, she didn’t even care. She hopes Darcy will keep her company.

She groans and shoves her key in the ignition. She _has_ to stop thinking about Darcy. She doesn’t know what’s worse right now: thinking about Darcy or Hannibal.

Well, one of them is someone she has complicated feelings on and her emotionally constipated self doesn’t know how to deal with it. The other is Hannibal. _This drive is going to be a nightmare_ , she thinks as she stops through a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru for coffee. A lot of coffee.

* * *

_Abigail isn’t sure what to make of her sophomore year of college._

_While she’s not a very social person, not like she was a few years ago, she tries to go to gatherings every once in a while for the sake of appearance. It’s better for people to think you’re just a bit shy rather than a complete hermit._

_Her roommate, a girl named Judith, always pressures her to let loose and have fun._ I do, I try my best _, she replies each time. Then Judith laughs, and says,_ maybe you just need to get laid _and then tries setting her up with one of her male friends._

_Abigail never bothers mentioning that she doesn’t swing that way, because Judith seems like the type of person who would immediately request a dorm change upon finding out, if her Bible sitting on their mantelpiece is any indication. (But maybe that’s just her being paranoid.) She’s known about her preferences for years, and months of living in a psychiatric ward and having wet dreams about Alana Bloom made her apathetic to a potential sexuality crisis._

Yeah, I like girls _, she spits at her brain,_ so what?

I didn’t think it would be that easy to admit _, her brain replies._

_She leaves each and every one of those dates saying she’s not interested in dating or sex, she wants to focus on school. She’s not sure how Judith, a pre-law student, hasn’t put the pieces together yet._

_Abigail finds herself going to another party along with Judith, dressed in a modest sundress. Judith, as she expected, leaves her alone the moment she sees a friend from one of her evening classes. While she doesn’t feel completely out of place, it’s a damn near thing. Judith is the only one she knows at this party, since it’s full of sorority chicks._

_She makes her way to the refreshments table, which is just a bunch of soda cans placed haphazardly on the kitchen countertop. She grabs on at random, looking down to make sure it’s not tampered with. It’s safe, luckily. She cracks open the tab, taking a sip. Can never be too careful._

_“Not having much fun, huh?”_

_She turns her head, blue eyes meeting brown. The girl has a hand propped up against the counter, smiling wildly. There’s a gleam of light, and—yup, that’s a nose ring._

_“Usually I do,” she responds sheepishly. “I’m not in a sorority, so I don’t know any of these people. My roommate dragged me here.”_

_“Ahh, me too,” the girl groans. “Did you get rejected or just didn’t give a shit?”_

_“They didn’t want me.” She doesn’t bring up the background check._

_“Damn, that sucks. I don’t think you’re missing out on much, though.” The girl holds out a hand. “I’m Darcy. Darcy Taylor.” She looks up for a moment, puckering her lips. “Actually it’s Darlene, but Darcy sounds better. Everyone calls me that.”_

_Abigail shakes her hand. “What is this, a job interview?” She smiles a bit at Darcy’s giggle, but she still feels nervous. “Um—Abigail Hobbs.”_

_Darcy’s eyes light up in recognition. Oh no. “You wrote that paper about isolation vs. exclusion, right?”_

_Oh, well—she didn’t expect that. “I did.”_

_“I knew I recognized you from somewhere. So nice to see someone who doesn’t cater to what Professor Fields wants, for once. He threw such a fit over your paper.”_

_“It’s what I was hoping for. He’s got enough people kissing his ass.”_

_Darcy smiles at her, and oh—this is nice. Really nice._

* * *

Frederick Chilton is as slimy as she remembers. She knows that he used to be a very handsome man, before he was shot in the face—those reconstructions did nothing to fix his attitude. He’s reeking with ego and self-importance. No wonder Hannibal tried to frame him.

“Miss Hobbs,” he greets, twirling his cane slightly. “Lovely to see your pretty face after all these years.”

Alana grimaces from beside him. Alana’s changed the most out of them—keeping her hair pulled up tight and switching from deep dresses to muted pantsuits. Her cane is gone and there’s a glow around her that Abigail can’t place, until she sees the wedding ring around her finger.

“Thank you, Dr. Chilton.” Chilton’s lips purse at the lack of response to his compliment, or reciprocation, she can’t tell, but he doesn’t comment. Abigail just wants to get this show on the road.

From what meager information she remembers about the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and what she gained from looking up the directions three days ago, is that Chilton’s injuries left him unable to run the hospital for a period of time, leaving it in the hands of Alana. She can tell that he misses his position, but he reluctantly takes his place as Alana’s second-in-command.

Jack looks much older than she recalls. The stress of the past five years has obviously caught up to him and then some. His salt and pepper hair has gone to full salt, there are deep bags under his eyes that are darker than her own, and there’s a slouch in his step and stance that Abigail recognizes as a defeated man.

There’s a girl next to him, standing up straight with her hands behind her back. She looks like she’s trying to make a good first impression. She looks around her age. Abigail bets this is Clarice Starling.

“It’s good to see you, Abigail,” Jack says, shaking her hand.

“You too. I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

Jack laughs, and _God_ , that sounds sad. “You have no idea. Abigail—” he gestures towards the woman beside him, “—this is Agent Clarice Starling. I’m sure you’ve spoken over the phone?”

Abigail nods, smiling feeling plastic. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Hobbs.” Her voice is clear and crisp. She’s fought tooth and nail to get to where she is now.

“Abigail’s fine. Ms. Hobbs sounds like I’m married.” She forces a laugh that sounds fake, and from Clarice’s head tilt, she can tell. Abigail clears her throat. “So, can we get this over with?”

Alana shuffles some papers at her desk, looking about as fed up with this situation as she does. “Right. I’m sure you’re familiar with the Buffalo Bill case.”

“It’s not like it’s unpopular; Freddie Lounds is having a hell of a time with it.” Jack frowns at the mention of her—she’s still a thorn in his side after all these years. “ _Bill Skins Fifth_.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Alana continues. “Hannibal obviously knows something, but he wouldn’t say a word unless you came to see him.” She’s weary; there’s stress lines on her face that Abigail doesn’t remember being there. “You don’t have to worry about him trying anything, we’ll have him restrained as much as possible.”

She feels like they just dumped a bucket of cold water on her. “I have to talk to him _face to face_?”

Alana sighs. “It’s what he requested.”

“Clarice and I will be watching through the cameras,” Jack interjects, sensing her discomfort. “They’ll be guards outside the door ready to run in at any second if they have to.” He looks like he’s fighting back a sigh. “I don’t like it either, but we’re desperate. We won’t let anything happen to you, Abigail.”

_You did the first time_ , she thinks bitterly.

Either Chilton can tell what’s on everyone’s mind, or he needs to hear the sound of his own voice that badly, because he cuts in, “I’m sure you know the protocol: No pens, no pencils, nothing sharp. Only pass him soft paper. There’s a panic button under the table, but I doubt you need it.” He smirks. “He’s been crying out for you in his sleep lately.”

Everyone in the room bristles. “Right,” she says slowly. “Can I go then?”

Jack places a tentative hand on her shoulder, Clarice at his heels. She’s sure that the woman feels as out of place as she does. She’s met Hannibal before, so maybe she knows what to expect. Jack, along with two beefy guards, lead her to a large steel door with no windows peaking in. She’ll be in there alone. With him.

Jack must feel her tension. “We need you, Abigail.”

She sighs, and steps in.

It’s empty. He’s not here yet. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and takes a seat at the left side of the table. There’s handcuffs bolted on the surface, but they probably won’t be necessary. She’s sure that he’s going to be in a straightjacket the entire time.

She hears the sound of wheels rolling, and the doors open.

It’s him. He doesn’t look different at all, except for the slight graying of his hair. As she suspected, he’s in the straightjacket. There’s no anti-biting mask on him, mostly likely at his request. She hopes this won’t end in bloodshed.

The guards don’t even bother to take him down. They set his cart where another chair would be, and leave. The doors shutting feels final, like her life is about to change. Maybe it will.

Blue eyes meet maroon.

”Hello, Abigail.” His voice hasn’t changed either.

“Hello, Hannibal.”


	2. Polonius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,  
> but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.  
>  _— Proverbs 31:30_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [so that _clarice_ trailer, huh? ](https://youtu.be/vsjoRzezy4I) personally i’ll be watching solely for my hannibal brainworms but i do not have my hopes up too high because alex kurtzman has made nothing but stinkers his entire career (plus i never forgave him for what he did to spiderman)
> 
> ps i have not seen tsotl in literal years so i don't really have the hang of writing clarice so i'm sorry if it shows. i'm going off the script and have bought a copy of the novel so hopefully it'll be better
> 
>  **content warnings that i feel aren't focused on enough to put in the tags:** implied rape/sexual assault (does not actually happen or is described) and depictions of vomit

They’re both silent. Abigail isn’t sure what to say, didn’t rehearse anything beforehand. Even if she had, she feels as if it would be lost in her mind at this very moment.

“It’s very nice to see you, Abigail,” Hannibal finally begins. “It’s unfortunate we had to meet again under such circumstances. I could have made you _paella_.”

“I think I’ve had enough of your cooking for a lifetime,” she replies, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’ll pass.”

“A shame. I have been missing the heat of an oven,” he muses. A pause. “I see your hair has grown. The longer length suits you more.”

Abigail runs a hand down the manila folder she was given. Information about Buffalo Bill. The killer Hannibal probably knows something about. Right. “I didn’t come here to make uncomfortable conversation with you.”

He raises an eyebrow minutely, so subtle that someone else wouldn’t notice it. “Are you uncomfortable, Abigail?”

“Anything involving you makes me uncomfortable,” she snaps back, opening the folder and not meeting his eyes. She mostly likely wouldn’t be allowed to look at such sensitive information in any other circumstance, but, well—nothing can ever be simple with her.

“I’m sorry.”

Abigail almost rolls her eyes. He says _I’m sorry_ in a way one might say _I’m sorry you feel that way_. Hannibal Lecter is built on pride, just as she remembers.

“Buffalo Bill,” she reads, “first known victim was identified as Miriam Lass.”

“Truly a pitiful end for Miss Lass,” Hannibal says, “to be disrespected in such a way.”

She vaguely remembers Miriam. Remembers seeing glances of her cowering silhouette in Hannibal’s cliffside house, him strapping her down and hypnotizing her. Knowing she was just a means to an end, another metaphorical step on the metaphorical staircase.

She had laid awake for weeks, knowing how similar their roles were, and how easy it could’ve been for Hannibal to make her another Miriam. (Although she was, in a way—she was Will’s Miriam.)

Looking at Miriam Lass’s autopsy photos doesn’t do anything to her now—just a sense of pity. How close she herself was to being in the same position, albeit with more skin on her back.

 _Like you respected her much more,_ she thinks, but instead says, “Why did he target Miriam anyways?”

Hannibal hums. “I believe that Miss Lass was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

There’s a gleam in his eye that Abigail immediately recognizes as _bullshit_. Knowing more than he’s letting on, wanting her to put the pieces together herself. She doesn’t have time for that. “We both know that’s a lie,” she deadpans.

“Sharp as ever, I see.” She can’t see it, but she gets the feeling that he has a smile on his face.

“I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to, _Hannibal_ ,” she snaps, and realizes it’s only the second time she’d call him by his name since she’s been here.

“Then I believe that our conversation is over for today,” he replies, voice still smug and put together, the bastard.

“What do you mean _today_?” She asks, letting the venom in her voice pour out.

There’s a gleam in his eye again, one where he knows he’s won. “I am not a simple man, Abigail. You are in Baltimore for a week, correct?” _How did he know that?_ “That is plenty of time for us to speak, and plenty of time to catch Buffalo Bill.”

“So you’re just bored? Is that why you helped with the Red Dragon case?” She can’t see any other reason why he would.

“A few promises were made.”

“So I wasn’t on the table at this point?” Like a lamb to the slaughter.

“No. But you are now.” It’s not like she enjoys it. “Do you know why they call him Buffalo Bill?”

Abigail purses her lips and looks down at the file. “No. It doesn’t say anywhere.”

“It would not be there. Agent Starling tells me it started as a crude joke from Kansas City, that he likes to ‘skin his humps.’”

Charming. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m sure you’ve taken an interest in Agent Starling.”

She’s not sure she likes where this is going. “Not really.”

“You will in time, I assume,” is what he says, but all she hears is _you will find her as interesting as I do_.

She imagines Clarice watching this footage live, with a minute shiver going down her spine, but her straight posture not faltering. She doesn’t want herself to be affected by Hannibal. (But Abigail knows that Hannibal finds his ways.)

She desperately changes the subject. “Do you have anything else to tell me, or are we done here?”

Hannibal pauses for a moment, considering. “There’s a former patient of mine in Split City,” he says, and Abigail feels like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, “by the name of Miss Hester Mofet. You may get a few answers from her.”

Abigail doesn’t reply to that, just closes the folder and stands. She knows he would find it rude if she left without a goodbye, and that’s exactly what she does. This probably won’t be the last time she sees him, anyways.

“Do come by again tomorrow, Abigail,” he says to her retreating back. “Send Agent Starling my regards.”

 _You will find her as interesting as I do._ She makes sure to slam the door in response.

* * *

Abigail pulls her coat around herself tight. While Baltimore is not particularly chilly this time of year, the tremors filling her body, ones that intensified as she shut the door in Hannibal’s face, made her recognize the coldness she feels as dread. The BSHCI’s front doors closing behind her are not final; she knows they’re not.

She had shoved the file on Buffalo Bill back in Jack’s face the moment she saw him, ignoring his calls for her to keep it, and stomped out. Somehow, the reinforced building was colder than the outside, but the shivers haven’t left. She spares a second darting her eyes around the parking lot for her car, feet fidgeting on the cold sidewalk.

“Abigail Hobbs, back in Baltimore?” says a voice from beside her, one she knows _unfortunately_ well. One she remembers hearing through voicemails and forgotten television sets, _begging_ her for an interview or statement.

“You’ve gotten better at sneaking, Freddie,” she answers, turning to meet the redhead. Freddie Lounds hasn’t changed much in the past few years; the only real difference is the taming of her wild curls and a wedding band wrapped around her finger. Abigail realizes, without humor, that the last time she saw her was on her barely functioning television, advertising her book with Chilton. (She had turned it off almost immediately, but she doesn’t remember seeing the ring.) “I couldn’t even hear you. Did you try that one with the poor bastard you convinced to marry you?”

Freddie grins, looking like a cat that caught the canary. _Jackpot_ , she’s probably thinking. “I found out that heel caps work well,” she responds, “and my wife would probably prefer the term _wench_.”

“ _Bastard_ is pretty gender-neutral.” She probably just wanted an excuse to correct her, Abigail thinks. Freddie is the type of person to get a kick out of being the smartest person in the room. She remembers the woman’s written words sounding self-assured and victorious, yelling _I was right!_ through her screen as she reported on Will’s death with candid shots of his barren funeral. _Agent Jack Crawford would not let me in_ , she remembers one line stating, _but fortunately, this reporter was able to snap a few pictures._

“Yes, but after dealing with too many insulting people, she thinks _wench_ is the funniest,” she says with a very obviously hidden laugh. Abigail thinks that she’s one of those people to constantly gush about their spouse to their friends.

“She should tell Hannibal about them.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve tried,” Freddie snarks. “But that’s enough about that, why _are_ you back? Was Reno getting boring? Revisiting an old flame?”

“Hannibal _was never_ an old flame,” she snaps. She dealt with _enough_ people thinking that.

( _"Did he ever—”_

 _“No, Hannibal Lecter never touched me, never forced himself onto me sexually, he never did anything like that. Can I go now?”_ )

“I never said _Hannibal Lecter_ , specifically.” That grin is still on her face as she puts a poorly hidden recorder in front of Abigail’s face. “Does it have anything to do with the Buffalo Bill case? What are your thoughts on it?”

Of course she would bring that up; Buffalo Bill is all Tattlecrime is talking about recently. Abigail opens her mouth, mostly likely to say something she’ll regret, before she’s interrupted by a more obvious _clack clack_ of heels.

“That’s enough,” Clarice interrupts, standing in front of her in a way that is meant to block Freddie’s view of her, but comes off more protective than anything. “No further questions, Ms. Lounds.”

Freddie’s smile doesn’t slip as she turns off the recorder and stuffs it in her pocket. That would normally be out of place for her, but she probably has enough material to run a few overzealous and fear mongering articles anyways. Abigail being back in Baltimore and being seen exiting the BSHCI, most likely visiting Hannibal Lecter, could gain thousands of clicks on its own.

“It’s _Missus_ Lounds, thank you,” she corrects. “Wendy took my last name, said she didn’t like the connections her old one had.”

Clarice’s lips purse, and Freddie must see this as her sign to leave, as she turns on her heel and says, “It was a pleasure to see you again, Abigail. Wendy and I would _love_ to have you for dinner.”

“Do you mean as a guest, or as a guest to a Hannibal type of dinner?” Freddie looks over her shoulder and grins, but doesn’t say anything else as she walks away, heels quiet.

Clarice is frowning, a look that Abigail thinks is too familiar on her. “You shouldn’t give her so much information,” she chides.

“She’s like a persistent stray,” Abigail begins, “feed them and they’ll go away.”

“But they always come back for more each time.”

Abigail sighs. “Freddie won’t write anything too bad about me,” she says, walking towards her car. Clarice trails behind her like a dog, heels clicking.

“You seem very sure about that.”

“It’s because she feels bad for me,” she states, hearing Clarice falter slightly, “so does everyone else. Like little Bambi losing his mother or whatever.” She remembers Freddie calling her some amalgamation of that at some point.

Clarice is quiet for a moment. “I don’t see why,” she says. “You’re obviously a very strong person, just playing the cards you were dealt.” She tilts her head. “Manipulation and murder accusations are pretty—” Clarice closes her mouth for a moment, and Abigail knows she was about to say _shit_ , but held back to stay professional, “awful cards, to put it mildly.”

( _“Hannibal Lecter, charged with the murders of Cassandra and Nicholas Boyle—”_ )

Abigail’s lips tighten. “That, and five years can change a person.”

“Being back in Baltimore can potentially undo all of that,” Clarice finishes. “I’m sorry, Miss Hobbs—”

“Abigail.”

“— _Abigail_ ,” she begins again, and she must feel _real_ awkward, getting corrected like that three times, “for all of this. We’re doing the best we can, and Hannibal Lecter is our only lead.”

She sighs. “It’s fine.” _I knew I’d come back here someday anyhow_ , she doesn’t say.

“I’ll call you if there’s any updates, or you can call me with tips.” Clarice’s voice is weary with a held back sigh. “We need all the help we can get. Do you have Mr. Crawford’s number?”

Abigail waves her phone. “I’ve had it for years. I’m sure he’s gonna call me soon anyways.” She pauses, hand on the door of her car. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Agent…”

“You can call me Clarice,” she interrupts, a small smile on her face, “if I’ll be calling you Abigail.”

Abigail nods, feeling sweaty despite the chill. “Right, see you soon, Clarice.”  
  
“You too, Abigail.” Abigail steps into her car and closes the door, not watching Clarice walk away. The moment her clicking heels are out of earshot, she braces her hands around her steering wheel and squeezes her eyes shut.

She sees him behind her eyelids, sees streams of blood and lifeless eyes. A warm hug that feels like home, but _shouldn’t_.

( _“I’m a monster.”_

 _“No. I know what monsters are. You’re a victim. And Will and I… we’re going to protect_ _you.”_ )

“What a load of shit,” she sobs.

For the first time in years, the scar on her throat begins to tingle.

Hannibal knew exactly where to cut her. Where to cut Will. He wanted them to live, wanted them to find him. (Or he wanted Will to, at least.) But only one of them left his house alive—and it wasn’t the one he wanted.

“Fuck you,” she seethes, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Fuck you, Hannibal.”

She hopes he regrets that day every single day of his _fucking_ life.

* * *

_I find Miriam Lass purely by chance. She’s been working at a convenience store a few towns away for a few weeks. She had gotten the job after her hospitalization, wanting a fresh start. She’s been off suicide watch for weeks and was considered healthy—I find all of this out later during my research. It’s like she was laid out right in front of me to take, a perfect opportunity. I choose her to get your attention._

_Miriam is far from trusting, not after what happened to her, but she can’t resist helping someone in need. I lay in wait until her shift is over, until there’s no one in sight. I pretend my arm is broken—pandering to her own disability to win her over—and I need help putting my groceries in my car. It works, and the moment her back is turned, I bash her upside the head, loading her into my car along with my groceries._

_Miriam is a good person. She’s pretty, albeit damaged. Someone I admire, someone I could’ve been in a past life. She fits into place perfectly. I take great care of her for three days, her screams music to my ears. I peel the skin from her back with gentleness—it’s what she deserves, and what you would appreciate._

_I dump her body, and pray that you find out about it. It’s likely you will: the police fall over themselves for your help. You are magnificent, you understand. I hope you get my message._

_This is my design._

* * *

Abigail wakes up suddenly by frantic knocking at her door. She groans, clicking open her phone to see the time, early morning, and about ten missed calls from Clarice. The knocks begin again, and she sighs. “I’m coming!” she yells, desperately pulling on her jeans from yesterday.

Her mouth feels gross, and she doubts whoever’s knocking would give her enough time to brush her teeth. She spent the night drunk in her hotel room, Will and Marissa taunting her as she drowns in sorrows of whiskey. To put it simply, she feels like absolute shit.

She opens the door slowly, wincing at the rays of sunlight. Clarice stands there, with her fist raised to knock again. She looks stressed but relieved at the sight of her. “Good morning,” she greets.

“Good morning,” Abigail croaks, voice tinted with the edges of sleep. “Why are you here so early?”

“I hate it as much as you do,” Clarice begins, frowning. Abigail notes, her mind still fuzzy, that she’s had a frown on her face almost every time she’s seen her. “But Dr. Lecter’s lead actually had some weight, and we need you at the BSHCI _now_.”

“Why do you still call him Dr. Lecter? I doubt he still has his medical license,” she tries to joke, but clams up at the serious expression on Clarice’s face. “What, uh, what did you find?”

“There was a severed head in Hester Mofet’s storage unit.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Abigail means to think, but says aloud. That sobers her up more than anything. “Let me—let me just get dressed. You can come in.”

Clarice walks in, her familiar heels quiet against the carpeted floor. If she notices the mess of food and half empty whiskey bottle on the counter, she doesn’t say anything, which Abigail is thankful for. She looks a bit uncomfortable, feet fidgeting and standing still.

Abigail looks up from her bundle of clothes—a juniper green turtleneck and a simple black pencil skirt, nothing fancy. “Uh, you can sit, if you want,” she says, a bit embarrassed, gesturing to her unmade bed. “I’m gonna get dressed and take a couple aspirin.”

Clarice nods, and Abigail steps into the bathroom to avoid any other awkward looks. She hears the creak of bedsprings, then a muffled, “Rough night?”

She huffs a laugh, not realizing that Clarice probably can’t hear it. “Anyone would have a rough night after talking to Hannibal the Cannibal.”

A pause, then, “You’re not wrong.” Clarice probably feels out of place, and Abigail tries to shimmy into her skirt faster for her sake. “Speaking of, you won’t have to do any talking today. I’ll be speaking with him, since you’re not on the case—not officially.”

“So why do I have to come with you?” She calls through the door.

“Mr. Crawford feels better with you nearby, I imagine.”

“Is it to clear his conscience, or does he think I’m a danger to myself and others?”

“With the way he talks about you, it would seem like the latter,” Clarice answers, and it’s so unexpected that Abigail barks out a laugh.

“So you’re not afraid to talk bad about him? That’s surprising,” she notes, stepping out of the bathroom. She adjusts her sweater a bit, looking up at Clarice. “Most of the FBI walks on eggshells around him.”

Clarice cracks a small smile. “My roommate isn’t afraid to speak her mind. Plus she’s a bad influence on me.”

Abigail chuckles, reaching down for her boots. “She seems swell. You should introduce us.” She stops, frowning at the cut on Clarice’s leg that peeks out from under her skirt. “What happened to your leg?”

She blinks, looking down at it. “I had to crawl into Miss Mofet’s storage unit, it cut my leg up pretty bad. I didn’t have time to patch it up.”

“Did you come straight from her unit to here?”

Clarice sighs. “Yes. I’ve had a long morning.”

Abigail’s lips tighten. “When we’re done, I can wrap it up for you. It could get infected like that.”

“You don’t have to do that—”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I know my way around first aid.” _I used to be a hunter_ , she thinks, then pushes it down with a gulp. She picks up her keys and swings them around with a strained smile. “Your car or mine?”

* * *

The BSHCI is just as empty and depressing as it was the day before, slate gray walls anything but welcoming. Abigail slams Clarice’s passenger door a bit harder than necessary, wincing. Luckily Clarice looks like she dreads this trip more than she does.

During the car ride, Abigail found herself talking to Clarice more comfortably than she imagined she would. She assumed that the banter in her hotel room was just Clarice indulging her tired self, but it continued throughout the hour it took from the hotel to the hospital. She thinks that they could be good friends— _You will find her as interesting as I do_ , Hannibal’s words echo, and she pushes down that thought. Maybe if they met under different circumstances.

Clarice leads her back to Alana’s office, which is more welcoming than the interior, but it doesn’t do anything to calm her nerves. She’s not even running on a cup of coffee.

“Welcome back, Miss Starling, Miss Hobbs,” Dr. Chilton greets, as haughty as ever. Alana’s lips are pressed in a frown from her desk.

“Good morning, Dr. Chilton,” Clarice says back. “I need to speak to Dr. Lecter.”

“Of course, of course,” he says, waving a hand. “I’ll be the one escorting you today. Barney’s shift ended an hour ago, so he’ll be in his cell during your conversation.”

Abigail feels herself sweat a little. “Are you sure that’s… safe?” She asks.

Chilton opens his mouth to answer, but Alana cuts in, “You don’t have anything to worry about. He doesn’t have as many privileges as he used to, and there’s guards in every corner.” She sighs. “He just refuses to have anyone but Barney take him out.”

Clarice nods, and Abigail remembers it’ll be _her_ talking to him. Right. “Thank you, Dr. Bloom, Dr. Chilton.”

Chilton steps forward, cane clicking. “If you’ll follow me…” He leads Clarice away, and Abigail notices that his sense of direction is quite lacking, but the cane seems to help. Another thing Hannibal took from him.

Abigail sits down across from Alana, feeling awkward. She and Alana haven’t talked one-on-one since she’s been here—hell, they haven’t talked one-on-one in _years_. Alana must feel the same way, because she’s quiet for a moment, before stating, “I’m sure this trip has been hard on you.”

Abigail huffs. “That’s an understatement.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Alana apologizes, and it sounds warmer and more genuine than Hannibal’s, but feels… unfamiliar. “I didn’t want you to come at all, but Jack was persistent. I know it’s opened some old wounds, and you can talk to me about anything you need to.”

“Do I have to make an appointment first?” She snarks.

“Of course not,” Alana answers, like she’s offended that Abigail would even ask. “You’re a friend, Abigail.”

“You thought Hannibal and Will were friends at some point, too.” _And something more_ , she doesn’t say.

Alana glances down at the papers in front of her, shuffling them in what Abigail assumes is a nervous tick. “Is there any reason for me to not think that?”

 _Yes._ “...No.”

“Then I won’t.” Alana looks her in the eye. “I trust you, Abigail. Hannibal hurt you just as bad as he hurt us.”

There’s a moment of silence, as Abigail tries to think of what to say to that, then, “How…” she swallows. “How did they catch him?”

Alana pauses, fingers gripping so tightly against the desk that they began to blanch. “He killed Mason—” _her brother in law_ , Abigail’s mind supplies, “—and his nurse after they caught him in Florence. I don’t know why he spared Margot and I.” _Her wife._ Her eyes are dark, like she knows more than she’s letting on. “Jack found him at Will’s old house.”

Abigail blinks, heart feeling empty. “He knew Hannibal would go there.”  
  
“Exactly.” She sighs. “He needed to see for himself that Will was gone. After…” She trails off. _After I went to see him._ She clears her throat. “After that. Jack found him huddled in the snow. He surrendered.”

Abigail's brows shoot up to her hairline. “He _surrendered_?”

“Chilton had a field day trying to get the psychology out of that decision,” she murmurs. “He couldn’t keep going, now that he had proof.” She looks Abigail straight in the eye. “He had Will’s glasses with him.”

There it is. “Does he still have them?”

“No, I put them in a safety deposit box. They could be used as a weapon, even if the lenses were taken out.” She knows that Alana knows exactly where and how he got them. She just doesn’t want to say it outright. “Jack could’ve had your head for that.”

Well—she stands corrected. “I thought of it as… letting go,” she answers. “My own metaphorical knife to the stomach.”

Alana’s eyes go soft. Even after all these years, she still pities her in a way. Like a daughter. Abigail doesn’t want to think about the implications of that. “You’re lucky we didn’t know where you were at that point. You would’ve been a witness at the trial.”

She laughs. “I learned from the best.”

Alana hums, and goes back to the papers on her desk. She doesn’t say anything to that.

* * *

It takes a little while, but Alana eventually leads Abigail to the control room of the facility. It’s being looked over by a portly man that nervously introduces himself as Ralph. He seems sweet, and briefly reminds her of her old sociology professor. (He was a very unfit man who got a lot of flack for it, but was anything but unkind and loaned his office hours to her on multiple occasions. She passed his class with flying colors and a letter of recommendation.)

Ralph pulls up the camera feed of Hannibal’s cell, where Clarice sits calmly in front of him. Hannibal seems pleased with himself, as if he’s won.

 _“Miss Hester Mofet is an anagram, isn’t it?”_ Clarice’s voice cuts in with a brief _crack_ of static, and Abigail wonders what type of conversation they were having prior. _“Miss the rest of me.”_

Hannibal smiles, and it's a wicked thing. _“You’ve surpassed my expectations, Agent Starling,”_ he congratulates. _“Well done.”_

Clarice’s brows are furrowed. _“You rented that place and kept the body in there. Why?”_

Hannibal sighs. _“His name is Benjamin Raspail. He was a—shall we say—an acquaintance of mine. I wasn’t the one who killed him, I merely found him and placed him there.”_

_“If you didn’t kill him, then who did?”_

_“Hard to say,”_ he answers, enigmatic, _“he is quite a slippery fellow. Shedding his skin every time, leaving bit by bit behind until he’s left to find more…”_ He glances up. _“Tell me, Clarice, do you think of your man, Buffalo Bill, as more of a snake, shedding his skin until he becomes a perfect vision of himself, or a chrysalis, hardening himself until he blooms into his true form?”_

Clarice doesn’t respond.

 _“But perhaps that’s a question for another time,”_ he says. _“Although I have one more: how did you feel when you saw his body?”_

 _“Scared, at first,”_ she answers. _“Then exhilarated.”_

There is a gleam of interest in his eye, like a kid in a candy store. _“Why exhilarated?”_

_“Because it’s when I realized you weren’t wasting our time.”_

_“By ‘our,’ do you mean you and Jack, or you and Abigail?”_

Her lips tilt downwards into a suspicious glower. _“Can it not be both?”_

 _“Perhaps it might.”_ He smiles, one that’s softer than before. _“Do keep an eye on Abigail, will you?”_

_“She’s a grown woman, Dr. Lecter. I’m sure she can take care of herself.”_

_"Indeed she is,”_ he replies. _“But I’m sure you can forgive me for being concerned; I’d hate for her to end up in my position.”_

Abigail’s skin bristles. It sounds like a threat, and she knows it is. _Look at what can happen to you_ , it says, _if I open my mouth._

Of course, the words are lost on Clarice, but she can still feel the edges. _“I’m sure you would.”_

 _“That goes for you, as well; I don’t desire for either of you to trade places with me.”_ He bares his teeth, and says, _“and I know you can understand concern for family.”_

Abigail feels bile rise up in her throat and runs out of the control room. The sudden turn of Alana’s heels isn’t lost on her despite her frantic state.

( _“I’ll keep your secret.”_

 _“And I’ll keep yours.”_ )

Her vision blurs, like she’s wearing Will’s glasses again, all those years ago. She feels sick; so, so sick.

There’s a taste of sausage and eggs in her mouth. It takes everything in her not to vomit.

( _“I can help you. If you ask me to.”_ )

 _Fuck_ , she thinks, and promptly throws up in the trash can beside Alana’s desk.


End file.
